Mountain Aster
by Estoma
Summary: She's no lady: Clove's questionable virtues in 100 word drabbles.


**Author's note: For Kay. Eight 100 word drabbles for the Gift Giving Extravaganza in June. **

**Inspired by Coventry Patmore's poem 'An Angel in the House' in which the ideal woman must be graceful, dainty, beautiful, gentle, meek, sexualised, and above all, feminine. The first seven drabbles deal with each of these 'virtues'.**

* * *

_i. _

She is not graceful. She is not a liquid gold Saturday afternoon, stretching toward sunset, or the warm, lazy Sunday morning to follow. She is not the first, soft fall of snow that sends the children forth, leaping and reaching eagerly for the snowflakes that spiral in graceful circles to land on upturned noses. She is the thick of the blizzard, snow driving at the windows and the walls with malicious intent. She is the hail that leaves welts for days, the reminder that winter is cruel and magnificent. She is the wind's claws. And he does not admire her.

_ii. _

She is not a single slip of paper, lost in a storm of names as fragile as the wings of the monarchs that flee when winter rolls in. She is not a collection of hunched shoulders and sweaty fingers crossed in a long-forgotten plea for luck. She is a chin jutted high, angular as the crags that frame the city square and loom in the corners of her eyes. She is two words lifted on the cold air, metallic with the scent of summer snow. She is a donor of heart, muscles, lungs, life. And he stands right beside her.

_iii. _

She certainly is not beautiful. She's not the first blush of rose to paint the mountain slopes with the coming sunrise, nor the soft blending to twilight when the sun surrenders the sky. She's not the girl in the dress veined with silver like the marble her father works into soaring columns and balconies. She's the sharp crags of the Kellies and just as rough. She's the pure determination, shadowed grey eyes and the tearing muscles left after her childhood was pared away. She's the north side of the mountain, bearing the brunt of winter. And he's just the same.

_iv._

She's not the first gentle breeze that winds up from the south and kisses the old snow. She's not the soft whisper that brings the first trickle of snowmelt and the first hint of spring. She's the melt at full strength when the snow turns to slush and rushes down the mountain valleys, carving new paths over old. She's the scratch of branches on the window in the darkness, bringing a primal surge of fear. She's the rumble, deeper than thunder, which rolls in the mountain valleys a second before an avalanche begins. And he's a little afraid of her.

_v. _

She is not a hastily stifled sob, a camera honed in on a moment of weakness that is all too human. She's not fingers clenched like a vice around a locket, a golden pin, a tattered polaroid. She's not the bubbling, choking cry for a family a thousand miles away. She's all muscles tensed and empty hands ready to snatch up a dagger. She's a tiger ready to reveal her claws. She's the sweeping arc of a dirk and the spray of blood that flies like a rainbow in one shade. She's the first to turn killer. He's the second.

_vi._

She's not the soft swell of hips, breasts and stomach. She's not a smile with half-sincere promises tucked in the corners. She's not a gentle sigh, head tilted up and lips swollen with too many kisses, part of a two-piece silhouette. She boasts crags, hard as the Border Range, where other girls are all gently sweeping valleys. She's a brave mountain aster. She's the level stare into a masculine face when she doesn't have to look up to anyone. She's a finger sliding down her waistband all alone. And he doesn't bother to watch her bathe naked by the lake.

_vii._

She's not a lingering question, footsteps falling in behind to trace the path before them. She's not rosebud nipples, strawberries in a white paper packet and hair brushed a thousand times before bed. She's the harsh laugh of a crow and the spill of viscera that draws it, spread-winged, to the ground. She's a joke that makes everyone blush and let their gazes sweep their feet when they really want to look up and meet hers to see if she's serious. She's a crude gesture, flipped down by her thighs just so he'll look there. And he doesn't love her.

_viii._

She's not a final cannon sounding, drowned out in the applause of millions. She's not trumpets and fanfare and bets cashed in. She's not a last, bloody battle with skin spitting and smiles tearing until it will take weeks to make the victor pretty enough to sell. She's congealed blood on the grass. She's a soft gasp, eyes wide open in shock when a dark shadow with a rock swoops in, like a new ending to a well-known story. She's a pale casket nailed shut for the train ride home. And he's going to tear them all apart for her.


End file.
